Doublecross
by Canadino
Summary: I am a liar, and nations are built on lies. I want Italy's heart, I have Italy's heart, and I scorn Italy's heart.


**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

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Double-cross 

I am a liar. I cannot remember my first lie, nor will I know my last. History is built on lies, and nations are built on lies. Someone claims to be holy, or important, and that lie builds empires. Don't think too badly of me.

I am a lie. I will smile at you and ask if you'd like to come on a walk with me, but I won't want your company. I will tell you you are not inconveniencing me when I want you to leave me alone. I will hold you and whisper sweet nothings to you when I will tell my friends that I can't stand your company. Are you sure you would still like to sit next to me?

The only truth I tell is to myself, and even I can't really tell which are truths and which are lies.

Every story is built on at least one truth. I am the first you meet when you enter the Mediterranean from the west; I am the big brother that juts out into Atlantic. My sister Portugal used to be a powerhouse in both trade and exploration; to say I am proud of her would be a lie. Every sibling holds a bit of jealousy toward the other; it has crossed my mind to mark her lands with the Spanish flag, but that would disrupt the peace, and liars don't get in the way.

During the Inquisition, I said I was trying to chase the non-Christians out. That was a lie. What does a nation have to do with the personal affairs of its people? But the national order was changing and if change comes with half-truths, so be it. And let no one tell you people fight for good or nation; reality whispers that money and pride run the show from the shadows.

But if you've been good little boys and girls, you would have known this. You would know because you study this, or you have studied this. Have you, now? You can't lie to a liar.

It doesn't matter, because this narrative doesn't involve that sort of thing, and that is the truth, sir. I will write it like lines.

I will not lie; my heart lies with Italy. It stays nestled up in the cities of commerce and sunshine. Only one can control me and can bend me to his will. To him I turn, like the philosopher turns to the horizon to make speculation. To him I bow, a loyal vassal to the king who rules my soul. He is the only one I will lose for, will fall for.

I will not lie; my heart steers away from Italy. I fight battles and I am hardly a saint, but I keep control and order on my streets. I do not let the underground move the strings and I do not stay in the past. I like my soul mates to be confident and bright, so that I may forget the darkness from past times. I lie, but I respect others, and I want to be respected back.

I will not lie; I do not have Italy's heart. He has already granted it to a fortunate other, who does not appreciate it as he should. I have battled in the past, but I do not pick fights I cannot win. I may beat the nation as he is, but it would be an unprovoked war and doubtless others will step in to stop me. I cannot take on the world; I am not as reckless as my old friend Prussia.

I will not lie; I _have_ Italy's heart – Romano's, and I know this because he came to me when I lost him to Austria and told me he loved me. He couldn't have loved me when I had him. He had to rub it in my face when I lost him. I did not lose him in the aspect of his heart; no, the money is in the land. I am as despicable as my people.

I will lie; like the lie I told Romano, that I loved him too. That I was upset that he was gone. That I had saved him so many times when we were together because I was in love. When in fact, the truth (the actual truth) was that he looked like Italy. I cannot tell them apart until Italy smiles and Romano frowns. If I kept him smiling, which he did on his own if he stayed at my house, I could trick myself into thinking I had Italy, not this pathetic twin.

I lied so many times; when I whispered it in his ear while we were backed in the crowded transit, when I held him close when he was upset that Germany proposed to his brother, when it flew out of my lips as he cried out my name in the dark. If I squint, I can see Italy. If I play dumb, the smiles comes back.

But I am not dumb, and I can still see through the imposter. But I know every part of south Italy, from each curve to the way his back arches when I touch him in a certain place. He says I am dense, but I can read him like a book; I know what he thinks and how he thinks it so I can play my own cards. In my deceiving ways, I make him happy, and when he is happy, Italy is happy, and Italy's happiness is my happiness.

"You are an imposter," my sister says to me. "Italy does not know the real you." No, he would not fall in love with the real me. The real me is double-edged and double-crossing. The real me flirts with Italy when Romano is in the next room. The real me asks Italy on a date, only to have him cluelessly change it into a double date. I can handle a third or a fourth wheel.

I drop lies like I drop flowers at his doorstep. I tell him his eyes are gorgeous but inside I've seen greener eyes. I tell him I like when he comes over, but I don't say I like it more when he brings Italy with him. I tell him I always know when he's coming over but I never am prepared for when he just drops by. He makes me fidgety and irritated and angry and Italy is like speaking to a good companion. I make him fidgety and irritated and angry, and it only serves him right I return the favor.

I can barely keep up with all my lies. I have since stopped feeling guilty; my heart toward him is like glass, the purest that reflects the feelings it captures so it doesn't have to – like ice that chills goodwill.

I will not lie; I cannot believe what a pitiful excuse for a nation could not see what web I was spinning since the beginning. But I cover it in sugar and twisted compliments that he believes is my way of saying sweet things. But I mean it all and I regret nothing.

I will not lie; I'm tired of this façade. It is getting me nowhere, only sticking me with a grumpy half of the nation I want nothing to do with. He finds me in a good mood, though, so I can say what I want. I wrap him up in my arms, and like the very musicians, serenade him with words – collections of letters and accents, nothing more.

"But you don't," he says, pushing me away. "You don't love me. I know you don't. You haven't even from the start!" He has been insecure before but he turns away when I reach for him. "You've lied to me all this time. I thought maybe you might change. But you didn't." He reaches me at the door. "I did fall in love with you, you bastard. But I loved the side you tried to show to me. I don't love _you_."

His words are like icicles and they break mirrors with the force they are hurled with. I let him go, I let him storm off and take his mood with him. He's a good kid and he shouldn't get involved with a liar.

I am a conquistador and I will not rest until I have Italy's heart. I will hold out that red carpet like a bullfighter until he runs to me, and I will not move out of the way. The collision, that sweet contact is what I aim for. I am a fighter, I am a sinner, I am a lover.

I am a liar.

Owari

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Note: I'm sure this is because of the way I put Bandages by Hot Hot Heat on repeat. If you read this at face value, you get one ending. If you analyze it like a Lit class, you get another ending. All I'm saying is I use Italy ambiguously and Spain is a liar. Have fun with this brain duck. I NEED TO STOP WRITING. I throw out stories like a flowergirl. Review, please.


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